


Chosen

by inlovewithnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written immediately post episode 4.02, and subsequently contradicted by canon.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Chosen

**Author's Note:**

> This was written immediately post episode 4.02, and subsequently contradicted by canon.

He searches through mortal souls as if running his fingers through ashes. _Take only that which is freely given_, the Host were told once, at the beginning, and to them once is the same as eternity. It is different for mortals; they are transient, they are forgetful, they alter things. He must be cautious of this. They are not the same as they were when prophets walked among them, when in living memory they had seen his own brethren walk with flaming swords.

He was made with no purpose but to serve. _Freely given_ rings oddly in his mind; all that he is comes from the Lord, and there is no question of withholding it. It is His, in His service. He must also be cautious of the fact that it is different for mortals, that their wills are their own.

He thinks, perhaps, that he understands this. Perhaps not. But there is so little time, and the Seals are breaking.

(slide of the rosary between his fingers, click and slip of the beads, soothing in its way, steady and constant.)

He has tried to speak and found that they still cannot listen; a shout and a whisper alike are too much for them. His particular assignment out of God's chosen tools has proven to be stubborn, evasive, and disinclined to obey. He suspects that even if he were to be granted a sword, a burning bush, or a hail of brimstone, Dean Winchester would close his eyes, turn his head, and deny.

There is no _time_ for this. The Seals are crumbling as Lilith walks. Lucifer is stretching in his cage. All of the Host have battles to fight.

And Castiel cannot make one mortal child unstop his ears.

(she laughs at him, gentle, teasing, loving, takes the rosary from his hands, _so old-fashioned_ she says, and smiles.)

So many voices raised in anger and fear and pain. That is their lot, the consequence of the free will they find so precious, and he wishes only that it was possible to silence them all the better to find the voices he seeks.

The faithful. The true. The devout. Their voices are softer, an echo under the wailing. And the ones who are saying what he needs to hear are rarer still, nearly drowned out by the rest.

(the baby's hands are so soft, her eyes so blue, so bright, looking up at him in trust, and he breathes a soft prayer that God will let him do His work, let him make this world better for her.)

One voice, one precious string of words, and he seizes on it. He reaches out, through the space between where the Host stand and mortality. He won't try to speak to this one, and certainly won't show his face again; the lesson's been made clear enough.

Still, he can gather the air, stir the dust, write in little more than shadow across the wall.

_Do you mean this that you say?_

(smile, touch her face, whisper as a breeze raises the hair on the back of his neck-- oh Heavenly Father, let me be your servant here on Earth.)

The vessel breathes out, breathes in, and Castiel enters.

There is so much work to be done.

(at the edge of his vision the fluttering of feathers, and at the edge of his hearing the rustling of wings.)


End file.
